


DIY Sutures

by HelloAfternoon



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward Kissing, Dick Jokes, Homoeroticism, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mean Girls References, POV Peter Parker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 16:23:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6712384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelloAfternoon/pseuds/HelloAfternoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter doesn't understand Deadpool, and comes to realize that it might be because he never really tried to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	DIY Sutures

Peter steps over the dusty floor, shoulders low. He’s breathing hard; exertion is pulling the strength from his body. Three (probably) broken ribs, a stab wound or two; nothing he can’t handle, but in the moment, it hurts like a bitch.

Peter Parker has been in this game for a long time.

An explosion rattles the moorings of the building he’s standing in. With his enhanced senses, he can feel every brick shiver, and it sends his skin erupting into goose flesh, even as the sound of the blast damages his hearing. He knows the cause of it without really even thinking, because who the hell else would set off a bomb like that with living people still squatting in the building?

Deadpool.

And of COURSE it’s Deadpool, because Peter has three fucked ribs and he’s out of breath and he wants today to end. He had a fun go, but the baddies are webbed and unconscious, waiting to be picked up by law enforcement. He doesn’t kill, but delivering a beat down is well within his moral limits, and he certainly had to dish one out today. One of the three men-all tied neatly on the floor, back to back, heads down-was hard to take down; Peter had, even with his superior strength, had to wail on him constantly for a good ten minutes before he finally dropped to one knee. Peter had finished it with a hard kick to his jaw. Almost snapped his ankle. It still hurts.

Say what you will about superheroes, but at the end of the day, the every-man still has tough bones. Peter is a lot of things, but indestructible isn’t one of them. Similarly, being a superhero is a lot of things, but easy isn’t one of them.

He turns his head. Two gunshots, second floor.

This building is dilapidated, set for demolition soon. It makes sense that there would be squatters, but he’d found an interesting lead to this place. A triple homicide lead to a bribed juror lead to drug dealer lead to boss lead to-you get the picture.

Three guys. All he got out of it was three guys. A toenail clipping off of a much bigger, nastier animal.

Another explosion. Peter flinches.

Fucking _Deadpool._

Peter turns and stares out of a rickety, sagging doorway just in time to watch a man sprint across the floor. He makes it two steps into Peter’s line of sight before a blade whistles through the air, silvery and quick like a shard of passing sunlight, and slides into his skull like a finger into a wedding band. It's like it was made with his name on it.

He drops to the ground, dead.

Deadpool is a two sided coin. Or maybe there are many more sides than just two, Peter can never really tell. One minute he’s cracking some out of date joke from a forum four years ago, and the next he’s committing murder with a level of ease that makes him almost eerie. That’s what it is; eerie, how easy he makes killing look.

Peter has been up close to death like that. It’s not easy. That it’s easy for Deadpool isn't not normal. Peter knows it’s not. That’s why he’s Spiderman, and Wade Wilson is Deadpool.

“Hoo, boy howdy!” he hears Deadpool whistle. His tone always seems to sway between snark and mid-afternoon family sitcom. He walks into the frame of the door and over the corpse, with a rhythmic, easy gait. There’s something about the way he moves combined with his size that has always set Peter on edge; he’s big, easy, and moves like he wants someone dead, even when he doesn’t.

Deadpool puts a boot on the man’s back and a hand on the knife. With a hard yank and a wet sound he pulls it out, and shakes the blood off the short blade like one might shake rain off of an umbrella. He’s whistling. He wipes his finger down the blade and the blood streams easily off of it and down his hand.

His suit is red for a reason, Peter figures.

“Deadpool,” he greets.

Deadpool nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Lord Jesus on a Popsicle stick in a birch bark canoe,” he squeaks in a shocked falsetto, “you gave me quite a fright, Spidey! What’s a guy like you,” he singsongs, twirling the knife in his fingers like a poker chip, “doin’ in a place like this?” he asks, throwing the knife into its holster by his thigh, where there are four more like it strapped in tightly.

“Just cleaning up,” Peter says, examining his surroundings. “But if you come in a make a mess after me, it hardly does any good, now does it, Wade?”

“Oh, don’t be a priss, buddy,” Deadpool snorts. “You’re gonna give yourself wrinkles. Shame, a guy like you, gettin’ wrinkles. Bet you’re damn cute; takes half the muscles to frown that it does to smile, right? Or somethin' like that,” Deadpool says, tilting his head to the side. “It’s why I’m always smiling. Can't you tell?”

"Had no idea. What are you doing here?"

Deadpool gives an animated shrug. “There’s money here right now. ‘Sides, who could miss out on a chance to nail some chumps for some drug dealin’ and whore peddlin’? I don’t give a rusty, non-euclidean monkey fuck what you THINK I should be doin’,” he says, pointing a half playful finger at Peter, “this place always calls. The wretched hive a scum and villainy,” he says, “doth always sing for villainous scum like me. Right?”

Peter shrugs. “I don’t know if I’d call you villainous. Scum, though,” he says, nodding for emphasis, “for sure.”

“You always know just what to say, sweet-cheeks,” Deadpool jeers, and then pauses. “Shouldn’t you be ready to bounce by now? Cops will be here soon. I set off them bombs, right? Even in this neighborhood, somebody’s liable to call the boys in blue, and they don't take kindly to homicide quite like I do.”

“And you do take to it very kindly,” Peter agrees.

“Oh _yeah,_ ” Deadpool grins, Peter can just feel it, “I take hard and fast and kindly. I'm known to,” he kicks the body, “hit it from the back, y’know?”

“Let’s bounce, then. Unless you want to get caught up with the police.”

 _Please don’t,_ Peter thinks. _Don't kill any of them._

“Hey, just this once, since the stars have aligned in my favor and we’ve met on this romantic afternoon on the first of July,” Deadpool proposes, throwing his arms out. “Lets eat. My treat. No expensive places, though; I ain’t been paid yet.”

Peter snorts. “Spiderman can hardly be seen with you, much less tooling around at a fro-yo shop.”

“What, you think this is some middle school shit? I ain’t takin’ ya out for fro-yo.” He pauses and looks to the left slightly for a moment. “No, I’m not taking him out for fro-yo, It was a stupid idea. Cute boys never want fro-yo.” He pauses again. “Bro-gurt. There has to be a joke there. Yogurt. Fro-yo. Fro-bro. Doesn’t have the same ring. I mean, it _suggests_ ejaculate, but it doesn't _scream_ it. I want to SCREAM ejaculate.”

Peter just stares at him. He’s broken and tired and he wants to sleep and Deadpool’s not-shutting-up thing just isn’t pissing him off like it usually does. He’s always a bit on the fence about Deadpool; on one hand, he wants to choke him constantly. On the other, he’s not always so bad, and in a way Peter can relate to him. He knows there are layers to Wade Wilson like there are to any damaged person, but Wade has a lot thicker, more dangerous layers than most, and Peter has to wonder whether or not they’re worth peeling back to get at whatever happens to be at the center.

Because that’s what’s really up for debate. What is Deadpool, at his core?

Is he _anything?_ Does he even have a core any more, or is his shell so finely and thoroughly constructed that it has become who he is?

“It means semen-”

“I know what it means, Wade.”

“Well, sorry, Mr. P-”

Police sirens wail in the distance. Peter stiffens.

“Fine, fine. Let’s bail. You really gonna go with me?”

Peter hadn’t thought about it. He NEEDS to treat his wounds; even with his healing factor, this will take a day or two to scab over completely. He’s not Deadpool, who seems to be all but immune to his own constant agony. Peter hates pain. He’d like to not be in pain very soon.

“I just need to rest,” Peter says.

“You took a beatin’, huh? Alright. Yeah, okay. Not fair to ask a guy out when he’s nursin' broken ribs, right? Kills the mood. Plus, you’re probably sore all over from that fight.”

“Yeah,” Peter grouses. “No anal.”

Deadpool stares at him for a second, and then laughs out loud. “Yeah! Yeah, there’s my sensible Spiderman. No anal after a fistfight. Or maybe EXTRA anal after a fistfight. Depends on who you’re fighting. Anyway, hop your pretty ass out that window and we’ll get a goin’. I know a place we can patch you up.”

That, as it turns out, is actually true.

With Peter moving at half speed due to his injuries and Deadpool moving at a mostly regular human speed, it takes them quite a while to get far enough away from what Deadpool made into really big crime scene. When they do, Deadpool cracks open a window into an apartment where Peter assumes he’s squatting.

Peter is probably making a terrible mistake. He laments this as he climbs through the window into Deadpool’s place. It’s facing a huge neon sign advertising a gentleman’s club that flashes in through the only two windows in the room. But it’s a place to rest and get stitches, and that’s what he needs.

Deadpool hops in through the window like he owns the place, despite very obviously not owning the place. There’s almost nothing inside, not even a rug on the floor.

 _Temporary,_ Peter thinks. _He really is just here on business, then. Probably won’t stay for long._

“Okay, my main spider man,” Deadpool says, slapping his hands together and rubbing them like a fly, “you can take the bed if you want. Er, stained mattress. It’s got a little love stains on it, but it’s still good, I promise. Bleached it myself. Mostly.”

Peter doesn’t care. The dirty mattress on the floor honestly looks appealing, and he sits down on it, relief flooding him immediately. His feet are sore and he’s glad to be off of them; he doesn’t recover from things as quickly as he did when he was a teenager, healing factor or not. He’s just not built like a kid any more.

He’s still a bit small stature wise, though, which means that Deadpool towers over him.

“You ain’t talkative today,” Deadpool remarks somewhat morosely, his arms going slack like a puppet's and his head lolling to the side like a confused dog.

“Three broken ribs,” Peter says. “Puts a real damper on things.”

“Oh, please," Deadpool scoffs. “Takes more than a few busted ribs to razz my berries.”

“I don’t want to know what is required to razz your _anything._ ”

“A big, slippery rubber fist will razz just about anybody,” Deadpool replies. “Hm, wow. I have you in my apartment. You know, I’ve fantasized about this forever. Never thought I’d see you on my bed.”

Peter waits as Deadpool appraises the situation.

“It’s not as sexy as I imagined.”

“My berries are not razzed at the moment. Stitches would help.”

“You know, I’ve always imagined _razzing_ spider man, but I never imagined _he’d_ be the one to ask _me_ …” Deadpool announces, and then looks abstractly off to the left for several long seconds, seemingly at nothing. Peter follows his gaze, but finds nothing to look at but a hole in the dirty, ugly wallpaper.

“Who are you talking to?”

“Your mom,” Deadpool replies easily.

Peter remembers why this was a mistake.

“I’ll fix you up, Spidey. Gimme a second,” Deadpool says, and then flounces out of the room like a kindergarten teacher off to go fetch some classroom activity. Peter stares after him for a long moment.

The place stinks like hell. It’s dirty and dingy and the mattress Peter is on looks like it’s wet even though it isn’t. He presses his hand into it and can almost feel the springs hitting his palm. It squeals loudly when pressed down. The only other occupant of the room is a duffel bag, a single, unsheathed sword in the middle of the floor, a Metallica hoodie, and a small pile of empty takeout tins in the corner.

 _Well,_ Peter thinks, _at least he piled them for courtesy._

Peter eases himself onto his back, lying down on the mattress,

It is not comfortable, but he is finally horizontal and doesn’t care. His body will heal quickly, but stitches will help it heal cleanly. He wants to get better faster, and that happens with treatment. He just hopes that Deapdool doesn’t come back with some kind of knitting needle and yarn to stitch his wounds up; he genuinely doubts that the merc has any real first aid supplies, given his tendency to just allow his wounds to fester until his downright absurd healing actor puts him together again, seemingly from nothing at all. Deadpool seems to have no incentive whatsoever to ease his own pain.

“Alright, nurse Deadpool in the hizzouse!” Deadpool shouts as he re-enters the room, wearing...a sexy nurse outfit.

On top of his costume.

It’s ill fitting and cheap, like it was bought at a Halloween store. The skirt part seems to fit, but the upper part of the outfit is too tight, obviously not made for someone with such broad shoulders.

Peter wishes he could even say that he was shocked.

“Do you have to look like a complete dipshit at every single possible opportunity?” he finally grouses, sighing and fed up.

“Well, excuse me, but my nice nurse outfit is in the wash, so it’s slim pickings today. Cheap Halloween nurse is what you’re gettin’, bucko. If you want the full fantasy, feel free to jam a twenty down my G-string and call me Bubbles.”

“Bubbles? That’s your stripper name? Not exactly creative.”

Deadpool gives him a flat stare, even under his mask. “Named after the best fucking powerpuff girl, obviously. I’m paying homage, you don’t have to be a dickhat about it.”

Deadpool sits next to him on the mattress, and it practically screams under his considerable weight. He has a tiny first aid kit on him, and it’s old and dirty. It really looks scrounged up from the garbage.

Peter tries not to think about Deadpool hopping out a window to go get first aid shit out of the trash.

“Whoa whoa whoa, no you fucking don't!” Peter hisses as Deadpool produces a needle and cloth.

“Un-tickle your tatas, Spidey, I have this,” Deadpool says, and produces a small, unused bottle of disinfectant. “For your delicate sensibilities only, baby. Disinfectant, for me, is way more optional than lube.”

Peter sighs. This is as good as it’s going to get, isn’t it?

“I can suture myself, thanks,” Peter asserts.

"No no, please,” Deadpool says, “you’re the guest, I insist. Guests get first pick of movies, suture privileges, and one free handjob. Special offer, just for you,” Deadpool says.

“Get it over with,” Peter sighs. He feels an oncoming headache. Deadpool has that affect on him. “The sutures, not the handjob.”

“Aw, shucks,” Deadpool pouts. “Show me where it hurts, then, sugar-pea,” he rumbles, sounding a touch cartoonishly disappointed.

“Oh, just right around the big bloody stab wound,” Peter grunts, pointing to his waist.

“It’s shallow, you wuss,” Deadpool snorts, but goes about snipping away the fabric from the surrounding area so he can begin disinfecting and cleaning the wound.

He’s not gentle. Peter doesn't mind; sometimes he has to do this himself, and his shaking hands are far, far worse. Deadpool is steady like he’s drunk.

“So,” Deadpool starts again, because he can’t stop talking, even when he’s cleaning a wound. “That a yes to the movie? You know, I’ve always been partial to movie dates. It’s easy to get nookie in a theater with the lights down, the movie loud. Romantic. You ever get fingered in a movie theater?”

“No,” Peter grunts, squeezing his eyes shut as Deadpool wipes away the blood with a thin cloth.

“Shame,” Deadpool mutters, “it’s a damn good time.”

Peter goes quiet, teeth clenched, as Deadpool disinfects the needle and digs flecks of dirt from the wound. Peter appreciates it, really, or maybe his standards have just lowered considerably. “Sterile” is not a word he associates with Deadpool.

“This stuff gets so gross if you don’t get the dirt out,” Peter grunts. “Healing factor only dos so much if something get stuck sub-dermal. You know what that means? The skin has to expel it somehow.”

“Fuck yeah,” Deadpool nods. “Acne bullets.”

Peter snorts. “I don’t usually leave whole bullets in there, but yeah. Acne. What am I, some kid? I’m too fuckin’ old for acne.”

Deadpool shrugs, the material of his nurse uniform making an unpleasant, plastic-y sound when it rubs against itself. “Pizza-face once, pizza-face forever. You were zitty in high school?”

"Oh, God yeah,” Peter snorts, flinching when Deadpool pats his wound clean and dry. He tries to keep himself distracted. He can handle pain, but it’s not exactly fun. “I was so gross when I was a kid. Zitty, nerdy, weird. Didn’t brush my teeth enough.”

Deadpool snorts. “Hard to imagine that. You must’ve had some chicks climbin’ your dick, what with that tight little ass of yours.” Then he pauses. “Jesus, wow. I did NOT just call your teenage ass tight. Fuck, shit. I unsay that. That has been unsaid.”

Peter laughs a little in spite of himself and then grunts when it hurts.

Deadpool stitches in zigzags away from himself. He whispers a little apology when he pulls too tight, and something about that makes Peter’s insides churn uncomfortably. He never wanted to think of Deadpool as _gentle_.

It throws things out of whack. He doesn't want to get to know Deadpool. He doesn't want to get involved. Finding out that Deadpool can whisper just complicates things.

“Sorry, Spidey,” Deadpool mutters. “I don’t exactly stitch myself, and I forget that you don’t handle pain like me. You’re tough, but I’m…”

“Inhuman?”

Deadpool pauses, and Peter feels like he said something wrong. “Yeah. Like, Buu or something.”

“Who?”

“Nevermind.”

Deadpool pulls the last stitch shut and Peter hisses. The ribs will have to wait, but at least the open wound has been tended to, if not a little shoddily. He looks down at it, at the opening in his suit. The damn thing is vacuum sealed to his skin with sweat, and he wants a shower and sleep more than anything.

“You’re all clear, baby boy,” Deadpool mutters, wiping the sealed wound with disinfectant again and drying it before applying a bandage, cut crudely to fit the wound, and securing it with packing tape. “There. Damn spiffy.”

Peter sits up slightly, feels the pain, and grunts.

“Don’t pull those, I just did them,” Deadpool warns.

“Take that crap off,” Peter grunts and yanks at the top of Deadpool’s nurse outfit.

“Hey, now,” Deadpool coos, “Look but don’t touch.”

“You are seriously giving me a migraine.”

“You sayin’ I give bad head?”

“You give me a bad headache.”

“That was the joke, man.”

Just then, a cat walks into the room. Peter turns to look at it. It’s old and fat and now wearing a collar, a single yellow tooth jutting up from it’s bottom jaw, which looks infected. Peter stares at it. After a moment, Deadpool looks too.

“Oh, that’s my landlord,” Deadpool says. “I want to be cool with him," he whispers to Peter,” but every time we go somewhere together he goes into the bathroom to trade blowjobs for coke and I have to apologize to everyone on his behalf.”

“He’s a cat,” Peter says gently.

“Yeah, he sure is. Here, kitty kitty!” Deadpool says, complete with a beckoning hand motion and little kissy sounds.

The cat turns trots out of the room immediately. Peter can’t help laughing, even if it hurts.

“Oh man,” Peter chuckles, “you even give that shitty cat a headache.”

“Yeah, yeah. Hey, animals can’t tell if yer fuck ugly, I dunno what his problem is,” Deadpool snorts. “Oh, hold on, let me get you a shirt. Can’t have you swingin’ home in a damaged spider suit, huh?” Deadpool offers, and gets up before Peter can protest.

Peter waits patiently, half expecting Deadpool to return with some kind of skimpy maid outfit.

He doesn’t, which is frankly somewhat shocking. In stead, he just has a wad of black clothing folded into his hands. He’s stripped off the top of his sexy nurse uniform, but the bottom part still sways around his hips when he walks. Peter watches him, bemused like always. Deadpool is nothing but crossing wires. Peter watched him kill a man less than an hour ago, and now he's bringing him an old shirt to wear.

“Here, it’s not exactly a wedding gown, but it’ll cover up the bloody spot,” Deadpool says. He takes back his seat next to Peter and hands him the shirt.

Peter looks at it for a moment, and then pulls it over his head. He can just throw it away when he gets the opportunity; it’s not like he could ever be seen wearing it. Once it’s on, he pulls it out in front of himself to examine it. On the front is text that says “nobody knows I’m a lesbian,” and Peter snorts when he looks at it.

He shouldn’t laugh at Deadpool, it just encourages his stupid bullshit.

Peter can’t help it that he’s funny sometimes.

“It probably stinks like me,” Deadpool says, catching the material in his hand, “and I gotta say, that really gets me hot and bothered.”

“What, your own dirty laundry? Sick.” Peter replies.

“Not the laundry, shit-stripe,” Deadpool condescends, “you in it.”

Deadpool leans in quickly, as if to spook Peter, but when Peter doesn't flinch, they’re just slightly closer together. Deadpool doesn’t move. For once, he’s completely unreadable. Peter watches him intently, trying to figure out his angle.

“You ain’t scared,” Deadpool says, too softly for Peter’s comfort.

“Not of you, jackass.”

Deadpool snorts, but it’s careful and calm. It’s not mocking; it doesn’t sound at all like his usual clownish parody of himself.

Peter didn’t want to know that Deadpool could be quiet or kind. He didn’t want to know that he could be gentle, or that he could scrounge up medical supplies, or that the could have a fucking house cat. He wanted to know Deadpool as an annoying mercenary with a bad mouth and a completely unpredictable temper.

Though Peter supposes this falls right in line with the unpredictable bit.

Peter swallows. He’s thankful that his mask covers his face, and feels like Deadpool is really reading him. Deadpool never seems to be able to read a room, but Peter suspects that isn’t really the case. Maybe he doesn't care, or just wants to start shit on purpose. Maybe right now, for once, he isn’t doing that. Maybe, for once, he’s just…

Just what?

Deadpool’s hand, large and gloved and wet with disinfectant, moves very slightly towards Peter. It’s a slow, minuscule movement, hesitant in a way that Peter had never known Deadpool could be. He stays still and waits for whatever this is to play out. Part of him is still half hoping it’s a trick, half hoping Deadpool will say something repugnant to drive him away.

Because right now, Peter isn’t repulsed. But he wants to be.

The hand slowly inches forward. Peter’s hands rest neatly in his lap, his legs crossed in front of him, the only thing between him and Deadpool. Deadpool’s weight makes the mattress sink, heavy and large. Powerful. Terrifying. Annoying. Disgusting.

_Get it together, Peter._

He can hear Deadpool breathing. It’s so quiet that it’s almost undetectable, but there’s a nervous cadence to it that makes Peter want to know what he's thinking. Deadpool’s hand moves further, very slowly, and his fingertips very hesitantly graze the edge of Peters-no, Deadpool’s-T shirt. It’s too big on Peter, even at this age. He’s still built like a gymnast, all lithe and thin, so it sags over his shoulders just a bit. He feels a bit silly, overall. Everything about this situation feels a bit weird.

Deadpool’s fingers are quivering slightly. So slightly, and yet more than enough to make Peter question every assumption he ever made about Deadpool.

 _How do you keep getting more complicated,_ he wonders. _How do you keep getting messier and harder to understand?_

Deadpool leans in so close that their faces are almost touching. Masks separate them, and they both stink like hell. Peter smells like sweat and Deadpool is coated in the salty odor of blood and rot and sweat and gunpowder and vomit and fucking Mexican food, because he always smells like severely inauthentic Mexican food.

Taco Bell, if Peter had to guess.

One of Peter’s own hands has traveled without his consent, first to act as a barrier between himself and Deadpool, and then to administer a small, delicate touch Deadpool’s collar. Peter doesn’t know if he means to hold him or push him away, so his hand just stays there, barely touching, not really a warning and not really an invitation.

Deadpool’s hand slides slowly up Peter’s side, fingertips grazing every muscle and rib, close to being ticklish but not quite.

Then their masks touch. Just barely, but at the lips. Deadpool tilts his head mechanically and hesitantly, and Peter feels the swell of lips beneath the fabric.

This isn’t like he imagined. Not that he ever imagined it, but if he ever had, he supposes he would have imagined Deadpool’s kisses as brutish and rude as he always is. But this is incredibly gentle, almost frightened. Peter feels like the iron giant, reaching out to touch a shy deer for the first time.

He does not hate it, but wishes he did.

Giving in, finally, Peter presses back only slightly. When he does, Deadpool moves away. He maintains the tiny, gentle touch, but won’t allow Peter to press their mouths together through the fabric, and when Peter’s fingers dance over his neck, he flinches very slightly.

“Sorry, Spidey,” he says, his voice a little rough, “I’m a messy, messy boy. You don’t,” he breathes, their noses brushing, “you don’t want none of this, you’ll upchuck all over. I make babies cry.”

 _Don’t,_ something in Peter warns. _Don’t, he’s a monster. Remember. Don't let him change your mind._

But it’s too late, because Peter’s mind has already been changed.

When had he begun to think of Deadpool-of Wade-as incapable of love? Of tenderness? He can’t truly blame himself, not having seen what he’s seen, but guilt hits him suddenly.

When had he erased the human parts of Deadpool for his own convenience?

Does being complicated make Deadpool less worthy of being understood?

Peter feels a bit like a monster, A monster to a monster, he supposes, because everything about Deadpool is still objectively bad. Murder is murder. But that big picture, made of all those bad pieces, creates an interesting whole. The big picture is more human that Peter had ever even considered, almost heart-breakingly so.

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispers, and then leans in again. Again, Deadpool backs away. Peter moves away to give him room, and Deadpool follows, always barely touching.

“Don’t gotta be sorry,” Deadpool murmurs, “I know I look like a bowl of scabby oatmeal at depressingly low resolution. My skin is nothin’ but jpg compression and sores.”

“Would you just fucking _kiss me?_ ” Peter breathes, tired and pained and wanting to get this over with, because if he’s going to feel this, he just wants to fucking feel it, no fancy trim or extra drama or tense moments like this one.

Deadpool whines. “Can’t,” he says.

Peter’s fingers brush the edge of Deadpool’s mask, and he feels him turn to stone underneath the touch. All that muscle turns to nervous steel in an instant.

“I’ll close my eyes,” Peter says, quietly. "Can I?” he asks. Deadpool swallows, waits, and then nods. He just wants to know.

He just wants to know.

He shuts his eyes, tired and in pain, and begins rolling the hem of Deadpool’s mask up. He pulls it gently over Deadpool’s chin, mindful of scarification and anything the fabric might catch on. He hears himself swallow, and wonders what the fuck he's getting himself into.

He rolls the mask up. He notches it onto the bridge of Deadpool’s nose, where it stays.

“You mind if I touch?”

“Touch yer fuckin’ heart out, babydoll. I got all day for touchin’,” Deadpool says, but his voice is shuddering and quiet.

Peter runs his thumbs over the skin. Indeed, it feels damaged. He feels the bridge of Deadpool’s nose, down his philtrum, to his lips. Full lower lip, scar on the top lip, dents and grooves and bumps. They’re split and rough, he can feel it.

Deadpool’s tongue, warm and wet, touches the pad of Peter's thumb and he almost gasps, but doesn’t. Deadpool, for once in his miserable fucked up life, doesn’t say a damn word.

Then he feels Deadpool smile. He feels his lips stretch, feels the way his mouth presses laugh lines into his face, pushes dimples into his damaged, sallow cheeks.

“Close your eyes, too,” Peter says.

“They’re closed.”

“Are you fucking with me?”

“I know your identity is important,” Deadpool says. “I won’t peek. Pinky swear. No matter how bad I wanna know how cute you are.”

Peter doesn’t bother to pinky swear him. With a spare hand, he pushes his own mask up, just enough to reveal his mouth, and leans in slowly, hoping to give Deadpool enough warning.

Peter is acutely aware of how alone they are, of how much this is DEADPOOL he’s kissing. He tastes chapped, damaged lips, a complicated mouth pressed against his. Everything about Deadpool is war torn and damaged. Their lips slot together gently, and for a moment that’s all it is, just the chaste press of a mouth to a mouth.

Then Deadpool tilts his head and leans in and presses Peter back just a bit and something in Peter thrives on the attention, on the privilege of breaching whatever wall Deadpool had built between them. He hears himself sigh contentedly before he can stop it, and then Deadpool’s hand moves to hold the back of Pete’r neck.

His hand is gentle, but broad and powerful with thick, blunt fingers and a worn hardness to it. His lips part slightly and Peter tastes menthol and fluoride toothpaste and blood. It’s not like any kiss he’s ever had before, and he's had plenty. For one, Deadpool is a man. For two, he’s…Deadpool.

But there’s something about that that doesn't bother Peter, even though it should.

Deadpool presses at the back of his neck, and Peter leans back on his hands, respectively trying to keep them to himself, afraid of spooking Deadpool.

 _Wade._ Afraid of spooking Wade.

Wade grunts and then tilts his head and then the magic starts. Peter opens his mouth, and then he’s making out like a teenager. Wade isn’t a great kisser, but Peter doubts it's inexperience so much as a lack of practice as of late, because he gets into the swing of the kiss almost too fast and too fiercely, breathing hard through his nose and pressing passionately into Peter’s mouth, sucking his tongue, nipping his lips, and Peter can’t help the little gasps that get out of him when he can afford to get air, until-

Wade jerks back. He yanks his mask down, Peter hears it. He hears the mask muffle his breathing, hears it drag over his lips. Peter still feels a wetness to his lips, a warmth to his mouth, a flush to his cheeks and chest. His breathing is labored.

“S-sorry, there, cowboy. Got a little carried away,” Wade breathes, sounding shaken. “Got no business feelin’ up a pretty man like yourself. Better stick to body pillows of Gordon Ramsay,” he babbles, “I’ll bring him MY risotto.”

Peter collects himself and pulls his mask down.

“You ruin everything,” he breathes.

“I know,” Deadpool says. “Sorry. The risotto is-”

“Semen, I know.”

“Right. Yeah. You wanna talk about the fact that we just kissed, cause…” he breathes, “...my little voices are goin’ bonkers, totally coo-coo bananas, and I...it’s hard to drown out. Talk to me?”

“We kissed.”

“Yeah.”

“It wasn’t as awful as I expected.”

“Harsh, dude.”

“You stitched me up.”

“I did.”

“Thank you.”

That gives Wade pause. He stares at Peter for a moment, and staring at his mask again, Peter suddenly feels like everything is extremely impersonal. He realizes, then, a tiny part what makes it so easy to forget that Deadpool is a person.

He doesn’t have a face. Neither does Peter. They can hide behind their respective walls and just look at each other over the top, but never really see or understand.

But Peter _saw,_ there just for a few minutes, even if it wasn't with his eyes. He saw, and he began to understand, in what tiny, tender ways Wade would let him.

“You’re welcome, my friendly neighborhood Spiderman. I’m always willin’ to help a bro out, y’know. Inside jobs, con jobs, blow jobs.”

Peter snorts. “You can’t cool it with the homoeroticism for a second, can you?” he asks.

Wade runs a finger over Peter's leg, up and down, almost shyly. “Well, can’t help it if it’s a bit erotic in here, what with all the face suckin’ we just did. Never thought I’d kiss Spiderman.”

“Never thought I’d kiss Deadpool.”

“Learn new shit every day, right Spidey? Like how to get lube stains out of a shag carpet. Wisdom is just experience plus time, my dude.”

“Yeah," Peter muses, more softly than he had intended, “it is. Thanks, Wade.”

After that, Peter stands and decides to leave. He’s tired and torn up and he has to get home. Wade, seemingly back into full swing bullshit asshole mode, invites him to a sleepover to watch Mean Girls.

Peter doesn’t say anything about how Wade doesn’t have a TV or access to Mean Girls, but he still leans in and whispers “I really don’t know why I did this. Guess it’s probably because I have a _big lesbian crush on you,_ ” before swinging out of the window while Deadpool screams “AY-YI-YI-YI” after him.

When he’s home, he sleeps. He wakes. He’s Peter Parker again, and yesterday seems like some weird fever dream cooked up by his guilty subconscious, but Wade’s shirt is wadded on his bedroom floor. 

He fails, wholeheartedly, to throw it away.

**Author's Note:**

> Babys first spideypool. God help me


End file.
